


Ill-fitted skin

by CureIcy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Canon Asexual Character, Episode: e101 Another Twist (The Magnus Archives), Gen, right after that, yeah that trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CureIcy/pseuds/CureIcy
Summary: Jon thought he would die at Nikola Orsinov's hands. He's alive and in one piece, but can't forget what happened. His skin won't let him.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	Ill-fitted skin

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all ever think about how a month in limbo would leave Jon very very traumatized and he just quietly deals? Sometimes I do. Late at night.  
> Warnings for mentions of non-consensual touching of the non-sexual variety, and brief internalized aphobia.

Jon is full of scars.

There are the pockmarks from the worms, the stab wound on his shoulder, the thin line across his neck, the hand shaped burn from Jude. He’s never put much stock in his appearance, and pretty much gave up on dating after Georgie, so that’s not what bothers him.

And yes, maybe it reminds him that he is far too world-weary for his age, but then, he’s always been precocious. He never quite fit in, with his hair beginning to grey as early as high school. He keeps it in a sloppy bun most days, streaks of silver running like veins of ore through rich clay, and it’s fine. He’s been through far too much trauma to call himself young at heart; he’s got no idea how Martin manages it.

No, Jon isn’t ashamed of his scars. They’re reminders that no matter how scared he was, he was stubborn and lucky enough to survive. What really disgusts him, and makes him feel out of place in his own skin, is how smooth that skin feels.

He made a joke about it to Martin, offhand, but he hates it. It’s not right. He still remembers those cold, plastic fingers touching him, remembers Orsinov’s smile as she told him his skin would need to be in better condition for the ritual. Like fattening a pig for slaughter. He was rarely fed, and quickly learned to distrust what he was given, but thrice a day and once in the middle of the night, wax figures and plastic mannequins and figures made of skin stretched over sawdust would hold him in place and slather lotion over his skin.

It was worst when they touched his back. Jon has always believed that knowledge makes the world marginally less terrifying, even before he was beholden to the Eye, and the sensation of empty fingers trailing across his flesh out of his line of vision was almost more than he could bear. He could hardly stand to look any other time, either, but at least he had the choice.

Sometimes, they came with other treatments, but there was always the endless sea of fingers prodding and twisting and smoothing him. Day by endless day, being groomed towards her ideal of perfection.

Jon is a messy person. His hair is long, tangled, his eyes have permanent bags underneath them, he snaps too easily and runs on caffeine and spite. He forgets to eat, pulls all-nighters trying to make connections and figure out what the hell is going on, and his eyes were ruined from an early age due to always reading under the covers, so his grandmother told him. But he is his own person. He’s always felt a small measure of pride at his lack of vanity, pride that was tinged with confusion when he first understood how fundamentally different he seems to be compared to the rest of the world. But he is unmistakably himself, skin marked by his life, his struggles, his choices, until it’s not.

His body is his, no one else’s, and he feels violated despite the conditioning not being sexual in nature. Maybe that aspect doesn’t even matter. He doesn’t like being touched, doesn’t even like handshakes that much. He thinks he could enjoy touch, maybe, someday, if it didn’t come with such baggage, so many clinging ideals and expectations.

It’s a mostly harmless fantasy, not one he commonly indulges in. Jon is nigh impossible to love, and he can’t imagine anyone trying to break through the cynical cowardly exterior to see something inside. And even then, he is too broken to ever be loved.

He was born broken, and some higher force seems to take amusement in breaking him down even further. He’s been thrown around like a toy, a tool; manipulated and bullied and kidnapped and threatened and stabbed and burned.

Jon is tired. He’s been tired all his life, waiting for this to end, waiting for things to get better. They never do. He trudges along, because he might as well. Learning, experiencing new things is the only part of it all that makes him feel alive, that makes him feel something, and even that is now tainted by Elias’ smug grin and the all seeing Eye.

He’s tired, but he’ll try again tomorrow. He’ll take out some of his pissed off energy on Elias, he’ll do his best to prevent the end of the world, he’ll get up off this overstuffed chair in the corner of the archives that will make his back ache horribly, he’ll keep moving forward, even though he’s tired in a way that drags at his very bones.

Jon understands the horror of the Stranger in its entirety now, the feeling of your skin not being quite right, of something crawling just below the surface. He has seen a hint of the world that will become if he fails.

Jon is full of scars.

But the scars are the only tolerable parts of his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me projecting but in a way that leaves you guessing as to what’s real and what’s fiction~


End file.
